It’s a miserable day in Swords today. The rain is
unrelenting, sky a brooding grey and it’s cold enough to warrant putting the heat on. The type
of weather that normally sends me to the edge of the abyss.
Not today though.
Why?
I am ensconced in my beautiful blue she shed, my me
shed, tigin Eibhlin, and am head over heels in love with it. The only sounds
I can hear are the rain pattering on the roof, sporadic louder splashes of rainwater
spilling out of my house’s clogged gutters, and the soft hiss of gas from the
Superser. My shed is what has been missing all my life. My own space. Solitude.
When I started dabbling in writing twelve years ago I
thought I had found the thing that had been missing in my life, my thing, my
passion; the medium through which I could communicate coherently with others, express my
world view. It seemed to fulfil that ‘what’s it all about?’’ hole for me at that stage in my life.
However, I recently realised that writing is, for me, is also an excuse to be on my own. To return to those times in childhood and adolescence
where I could lose myself in a book for hours on end, only emerging from the dreamlike trance books put me in when someone physically touched me, bringing me back from the
world the author had created for me. With the shed I have regained that solitude, and can use
it how I like; to read, to write, to think. I’m privileged to have been able to
indulge myself and buy this space, and for the first time ever I don’t feel
guilty about spending money on myself. It’s an investment in my mental health
as much as anything.
I’m raved here in the past about the Tyrone Guthrie Centre
in Annaghmakerrig, Co. Monaghan. I love that place; the first time I arrived there
I felt like I had landed home. If I arrive there for a visit in an energized mood I can usually achieve really good
work, if I go there blocked it can help unblock me (unless I hit the Red Biddy
too hard! Alcohol blocks creativity for me). It is the deep stillness
of the place. A space to think. To be.
I’m getting exactly that same sense of energy and home in the silence
of my shed. The quietness is nourishing my little fire of creativity, stopping
me rushing things and submitting too early; I feel the work I’m producing now
is a lot better than my pre she-shed work, my output is certainly up. There are
no banging doors in it, no ringing doorbells, flushing loos, thunderous poundings
up and down stairs; no blaring radios,
no babbling tvs, no strummin’ guitars pluckin’ banjos plinkin’ mandolins or
ripplin’ pianos. There are no hummin’ whistlin’, singin’ mutterin’ bargin’ males.
There is only my breath, the rain on the
roof, my fingers on the keyboard or pencil scratching across the page as I write
letters to make words that form sentences, slowly building something, all this underscored by the sibilant hiss of the SuperSer and the occasional rustle of
paper when I need to consult a book.
In one word. Bliss.
I may well become a hermit. I suppose l’ll still come out
the odd day to play with yiz! If yiz will have me, that is. M’wah.
